PostMortem
by tocktick
Summary: Set post-Reichenbach. A one-shot from John's POV that deals with their "reunion." Could continue into several vignettes.


"**Post-Mortem"**

The first time I saw Sherlock Holmes after the event of his death, few words were exchanged. It had been a long day, as I recall, and I had returned home to Baker Street with the intention only to change quickly before meeting up with Mary for dinner. I strolled through the door, shook off my umbrella, and gave a cheery "Hello." Mrs. Hudson had met me at the doorway as she had been in the habit of doing since Sherlock's death.

"You don't have to do that Mrs. Hudson," I told her once. "Wait by the door, I mean."

"I know, dear," she said, with a pat on my shoulder. "I like to, though. I like to know you've come home safely."

I never mentioned it again after that. I hadn't thought about what it must have been like for Mrs. Hudson the day of the…the day Sherlock jumped. All kinds of rumors on the telly, and no news from Sherlock or myself. Just a worried, confused Mrs. Hudson, waiting by the door.

This day, Mrs. Hudson's face was ashen and near comical in its inability to choose an expression.

"He's back," she whispered, as if saying it any louder might make it not true. And then, her face was not near comical at all. "Detective Lestrade called before-" was all she got out before I was out the door and walking.

I didn't hail a cab and had walked a good mile through the icy rain before realizing I left my umbrella in the flat's foyer. It was the first thought I allowed myself, and I held onto it like it was my life raft in the downpour, the only thing keeping me from being swept away completely: The umbrella must be making an awful mess of the clean floor, I thought. I would have to apologize to Mrs. Hudson later. She had just done the floors yesterday, and already I was tracking dirty rainwater all over the place.

Then, the police station was in front of me, and I had no idea how I had made it the miles across London in such abysmal conditions. I must have looked a right terror - clothes sticking to the skin, shivers racking my body, shoes squelching every step. When I passed Anderson, he gawked like a schoolboy.

I heard him before I saw, the voice pulling me in like an eddy.

"We're losing valuable time!" the voice rose over the hushed conversations of the office, cadence rushed in irritation.

"Tell me something only he would be able to tell me," responded Lestrade as I rounded the corner. "Prove to me you're Sherlock Holmes." I flinched at the name.

People began to notice me as I approached Lestrade's office. I could tell by the way their whispers dropped to silence as I passed. But I didn't care. I was so far past caring.

"Fine," the voice said, with an impatient sigh. A sigh I knew all too well. A sigh I thought I would be okay never hearing again until I couldn't. "You were at the gym when you got the call. Playing squash. You picked it up a few weeks after my alleged death. Your therapist thought a hobby, particularly a physical one, would help you deal with the guilt you harbored over my alleged attempted suicide." The words cut into me, the way they were flung out so casually. "It hasn't, though. Your hits always hook. Most likely due to the broken wrist you suffered as a boy. Never healed properly. Should have gone with jogging."

I saw Lestrade first, frowning towards the voice, which was just blocked by the threshold of the door. "Anyone could know that from a bit of surveillance," Lestrade finally said.

"Exactly what I've been saying!" the voice cried. "You must observe, as well as see."

And there he was. I soaked the details of his face, his body, his hands as they ran through his hair. It's the lack of change that got to me. Oh, I'm sure Sherlock could have rattled off a dozen different ways in which his appearance had changed, and that would have just been off the top of his head. But, for me, he was unchanged, as pale and gangly and beautiful as the day I first met him.

"It's him," I said decidedly from the doorway, surprising even myself.

Lestrade and Sherlock turned to me and it was like an out-of-body experience the way I saw Sherlock see me. His blue-grey eyes were wide and searching, on overdrive as they tried to take in all of me at once. A futile effort. I had gotten good at hiding the parts of me that hurt. The parts of me that mattered.

He started to his feet, hand stretched towards me, before his reason caught up with emotion. He halted awkwardly, hand still outstretched and expression guilty - like a child asking for forgiveness. An emotion - maybe regret, maybe longing, maybe anger - threatened to break through the walls I had constructed.

"John, you're all wet," Sherlock finally said, and it seemed wrong coming from him. The kind of observation a six-year-old could make. Then again, Sherlock had always had the ability to transition from first-grader to university professor on the drop of a dime.

"It's raining out," I said back, equally idiotic. I couldn't help but notice we were talking about the weather. Then, as if there were nothing else in the world to discuss, as if we were two strangers who happened to share an elevator, I turned and I left.

Sherlock did not follow and, later - when the white hot anger began to eat away at my walls - I pretended that didn't hurt.

Hope you guys liked it! There are so many post-Reichenbach stories out there, but it was fun to write my own. If you're interested, check out my blog post on the "I Believe in Sherlock" movement and what makes Sherlock such an enduring character:

.com/2012/03/31/the-romance-of-reason/


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